Fool's Gold
by Doll Nabokov
Summary: A oneshot with a surprising twist at the end. Pain drives two friends to become something more. Is there balm in Gilead? Or simply Fool's Gold? Minor adult themes.


A/N: Starting to get my hands dirty! This fiction is a little more mature than my usual style. Who knows--maybe next time I'll even write some smut. I found the inspiration for this quick (and angsty) sketch from a piece by Yma. It's something I've always wanted other writers to touch upon. Feedback makes me very happy!

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**Fool's Gold  
**_By: Technical Difficulty_

It wasn't love.

Meryl kicked away tangled sheets and sat up, knotting her hands through her damp hair. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, the cheap, tiled floors ice-cold against the soles of her bare feet. She wasn't foolish enough to trick herself into believing that it was love, when she knocked on his door at midnight each night and left before the first brush strokes of light painted the sky.

Meryl rubbed the tension out of her neck with one hand, listening to his steep, even breathing and smelling the perfume of Old Spice, sweat, and angelica that laced the bedsheets. The barest moonlight filtering through muslin curtains cast a rectangle of silver-white light on the floor where her nightshirt lay, hit-or-miss. With a sigh, she pushed off from the bed in a groan of overworked springs, her warm heels sticking slightly to the cool tiles. She leaned forward, her hand momentarily haloed in the moonlight as she snagged the shirt off the ground and shrugged it over her head.

One of the buttons had been torn off under hungry, eager hands, Meryl noted wryly. She'd sew it back on in the morning. She wondered why, _why_ each midnight found her at his door when all it ever granted her was more emptiness.

The insurance girl crossed back to the headboard, where he slept a sleep as restless as her wakefulness. The sheets were still warm, but she knew better than to crawl back into bed. The sun would be up soon—too soon to allow her the luxury of loitering. She knelt beside the bed, like a young girl ready to say her nightly prayers, running her fingers lightly over his jawline.

_Now I lay me down to sleep_

Her touch grew bolder, rubbing the five o' clock shadow on his chin, tracing his cheekbone, gently brushing his sideburns.

_I pray the Lord my soul to keep_

She was close enough for his breath to stir her bangs, and she felt a familiar fire blossom in her veins.

_If I should die before I wake_

His long, curling eyelashes flickered open sleepily, and she leaned in closer, pressing her lips against his neck.

_I pray the Lord my soul to take_

"Hi," she murmured shyly, smiling a little.

"Mm. Meryl," he said tiredly, propping himself up on an elbow. Meryl closed her eyes, enjoying the sound of her name.

"I have to leave," she whispered.

He touched her shoulder gingerly, then her collarbone, his brow furrowed in concentration. There was no passion in the gesture; it was simply curious, exploring---as though she was a "Magic Eye" puzzle, and he wasn't exactly certain of what he was looking at.

Meryl caught the hand in her grip, curling her fingers around it and squeezing it. He leaned forward suddenly, catching her off guard with a kiss. Meryl went rigid, then met it with that same, hollow craving, pressing him back against the mattress, climbing into the bed.They stayed like that, locked together for a few breathless seconds, still, single, motionless. Then she straddled his body, her hands kneading his chest hungrily, moving up to his shoulders in a flurry of lustful, frenzied strokes.

Meryl's fingers wandered upward, feeling, caressing, touching. Her hands slipped onto the mattress and she balled them petulantly, scrunching fistfuls of linen, starving for every part of him. He ran his tongue lightly over the inside of her teeth, tasting her flavor before breaking the kiss. Panting slightly, he brushed his lips against her neck, her jaw, her breastbone.

His experienced hands were at work now, teasing the inside of her thighs and her backside. He slid his arms around her waist pulling her closer so she could feel his heart knocking against his ribs.Meryl nipped at his ear playfully, murmured: "I really...have...to leave."

"Meryl—" He started, and she was near enough to smell the subtle mixture of cigarettes and whiskey on his breath.

Meryl quickly touched her fingers to his mouth, silencing him. "You know I can't be here in the morning."

He stared at her for a moment, and all at once the bedroom seemed uncomfortably warm, close, and stuffy. Then he nodded his understanding and she pulled back, her sweaty fingers lingering against his skin.

It wasn't desire.

There was no longing, no wanting, no wishing that this would happen. It was almost against their will, a sort of carnal magnetism.

It wasn't addiction.

No, that word was too close to love. There was no affection; there wasn't even an attraction, beyond the physical one.

It was a craving. A hunger. A _need_. His love for Milly was as unrequited as her love for Vash the Stampede. And so they'd fed off each other instead, satiating that lust every midnight.

Meryl slid off the bed, the ache in her chest returning double-fold. She could feel his smoke-grey gaze following her to the door. She paused, one hand lighting on the doorknob, unsure of what to say. Then she swung the door open wide on silent hinges, goose bumps pricking her overheated skin at the sudden, cold draft of night air.

It wasn't something to be proud of. It wasn't something to be ashamed of, either. It was a balm, a remedy, a pain killer. It felt right in the moment, and that was all she was asking for: a brief respite. At least she was honest with herself—that was the one thing she could hang her pride upon. It wasn't desire, and it wasn't addiction.

"Good night, Wolfwood."

It wasn't love.


End file.
